


Burning Bright

by SpicaV



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Episode: s03e14 Alter Ego, Episode: s03e16 Blood Fever, F/M, Healthy Relationships, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Light Bondage, Male Friendship, Pon Farr, Post-Canon, Telepathic Bond, Vulcan Biology, Vulcan Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:48:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26073685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicaV/pseuds/SpicaV
Summary: A happy—for the most part—and sexy pon farr story, set over the course of several years. Vorik and Liv McMinn go from acquaintances to friends to lovers to spouses, Tom Paris is friendly and sensitive, and the couple explore various kinds of passion over the span of a long relationship. Also, Vulcans can be surprisingly kinky under those reserved exteriors.
Relationships: Tom Paris & Vorik, Vorik (Star Trek)/Original Female Character
Comments: 31
Kudos: 34





	1. Nebulous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iammine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iammine/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For iammine, a fellow fan who asked.

Vorik knew McMinn. 

Not well, but enough to have several memorable interpersonal interactions: he had spent two weeks training her on the plasma venting systems and minor Engineering repairs, for this far out in the Delta Quadrant every hand and crewmember would count to pull out of an emergency. 

He had attended her lecture series on Federation vernacular language. Indeed, had contributed several Vulcan phrases to her research, including the Raalian aphorism: “Thought is better than riches in a strange place.”

McMinn had been amused at the appropriate nature of the quote, given their situation.

She had stood up at the podium at the final lecture in the series, her strawberry blonde hair down, the Sciences teal of her uniform bringing out blue notes in the grey eyes. The apples of her cheeks blushed ruddy as she amused the audience with a vast and thorough translation of the phrase “go fuck yourself” in the assembled languages of the _Voyager_ crew. From the Vulcan “ponfo miran” to the Bajoran “kilat ti moro,” the audience of officers and crewmen were in tears with laughter by the end of that segment. 

Vorik himself remained unruffled, but only because he kept his eyes on the potted ficus in the corner to avoid eye contact with any of his fellow crew. The insides of his lips had hurt from biting them together in an effort not to grin outright.

He had later spent time with McMinn and Lieutenant Suzi Shimizu on the Holodeck, playing pool in a replica of Ingvi’s Tavern on rainy Viksholm II. He had won, and they bought him his synthehol rounds for the rest of the evening.

McMinn had been his belay partner on one of Paris’s caving expeditions, her touch light on his hip bone as she checked the figure-eight knot on his harness. He had laid one warm hand on her waist to pull the thigh tabs tighter, and she rolled into his touch.

This night he was wakeful after sensual dreams of Valen, his bondmate. Woke with homesickness clotting his throat, stinging in his eyes. He drew his heavy black meditation robes over his shoulders and slipped out into the dark corridors, ship’s night deep and quiet. Went to his favorite place, a tiny observation alcove on the starboard side, Deck 7. He stopped short when he rounded the corner, hesitated, not anticipating finding someone else in the spot he preferred to ride out his periodic insomnia. 

McMinn stood in billowy grey trousers tied at her narrow waist. Blonde hair tumbled, black tank top like a second skin and feet bare on the carpet. Arms crossed, leaning against the bulkhead and watching stars streak by.

She turned a little, noticing him, her eyes reddened as if she had been crying. Palmed her face, checking for tears. There was a faint white streak of dried salt on her left cheek, and Vorik kept his eyes from it.

“Are you having difficulty sleeping, Lieutenant?” he asked, drawing himself up straight to his full 180 centimeters and letting his robes fall straight. He was only moderately tall for a Vulcan and wished for more height, in spite of the illogic.

“Something like that,” McMinn said. Smiled in a tight manner that did not reach her eyes. “Patrick’s bogarting all of the covers. Ah, hoarding all of the covers.”

“Ensign Gibson.”

“Aye.” Her accent was full bore and obvious. “Being a bit of a mankey tit, actually.”

Vorik glanced at the window, unsure how to take this. Slang was something that did not translate easily across languages and required extensive explanation. He thought of Jarloe back at the Academy, with his deft tongue and grasp of language.

He knew that “tit” referred to female mammalian anatomy and meant a silly person, but “mankey”—or was it “main key?”—escaped him. 

“Sorry. I shouldn’t dump this on your shoulders. Lovers’ quarrels are best left behind bedroom doors.” McMinn wandered to the padded bench and sat cross legged against the wall. “What brings you out at the witching hour, dear Ensign?”

“I could not sleep.” Vorik sat beside her, physically tired even as his mind roared at a strained warp 6. Sometimes he began thinking and could not stop, the ideas manic and intrusive, a handicap that his twin brother shared. Or used to. He had not seen Taurik in two-point-eight years and perhaps might never see him again. Grief yanked at him, so he resolutely pulled his attention back to the present, the turquoise green polish on McMinn’s bare toes. He liked the color. Soft. Almost mint. 

“Tea?” McMinn nodded at the tiny replicator in the stern wall. 

“Please.”

Earl Grey for her, Pu-erh tea for him. Hot, smoky. Like home.

“I have these handleless tea bowls back on Earth,” McMinn said, sitting next to him again. Vorik was aware of the heat of her body on his arm. “This deep green glaze that looks almost black. White clay. Replicated mugs feel chossy against one’s hands, don’t they?”

“Yes,” he said, surprised. This was a sensation that he had felt before but lacked the creativity to voice it. “Crewman Dell and I agreed on the word ‘gritty.’”

“That too. Like chalk. They aren’t though; they don’t leach into the tea. I hope.”

“They should not. Lieutenant Torres had me running maintenance work on them just before we entered the Nekrit Expanse.” 

“Ah. That explains the lizard that materialized into my Caesar salad.”

Vorik glanced at her to make sure she was teasing. She quirked an eyebrow at him, her smile tired and kind and finally reaching her eyes. He tilted his head as if considering. “Perhaps the computer thought you needed the protein.”

McMinn laughed, sloshing tea over her fingers. “Touché, friend. And there was no lizard. Though the Parmesan was a bit… Romano-y.”

“My apologies. Next time I shall program in Earth’s cheese-making regions with more care.”

“Thank you.” 

Silence stretched along with the tails of faraway stars, and Vorik watched his reflection vibrate and pool in the dark tea. His head was rushing but less so. His thoughts of home had stopped, but now he was wondering if he was making an ass out of himself.

“What’s that look like to you?” McMinn pointed at the flare of a violet nebula with her chin. 

“A nebula.”

“Ach. I mean what does the shape of the nebula look like to you?” 

Vorik considered. “A ch’aal bush.”

“Ch’aal means amethyst, right?”

“Yes. The plant flares out in spikes of purple leaves. They look like amethyst nodules, hence the name. Make good tea.”

“I see it.” She squinted. “Tumbleweed. It looks like a tumbleweed.”

“IC 5070 looks like a flag at full value on the wind. It is the one I find most aesthetically pleasing. Humans call it the Pelican.”

“Mine’s the Rosette. SH 2-275. What is the name of your nebula on Vulcan?”

“IC 5070. We have no pelicans and no romantic name for it.”

“Think of one?”

“Flag at Full Value.”

McMinn chuckled again. “I walked right into that one.”

“Walked?”

She didn’t answer but took a long sip of tea. Gestured at the nebula outside of the port. “This is a rather pretty one. Kinda blue-indigo.”

“Is it? I see it as violet.” Vorik stood and walked to the port so he could see the full, spidering expanse of the nebula. McMinn joined him, her tea mug held close to her face as if she were holding a bouquet of flowers. “See? Violet with points of red-orange.”

“Truly. Blue-indigo with points of violet. I think we see colour a little differently, Vorik. You seem shifted down the color spectrum.”

“Intriguing.” He considered and nodded at the black of space. “What colour is the void between stars?”

“Deep blue-black.”

“Deep black-red.”

McMinn looked out at the stars, wonderment on her face. “How are we sure that my red is your red? Perhaps my blue is your chartreuse?” 

Vorik smiled, hid the expression behind a sip of tea, but McMinn saw. Pretended not to. “I doubt it,” he said at length. “We both can identify yellow. Recall that I asked you to locate the GNDN relay indicators? I described them as yellow and you went right to them.”

“I remember. And got a wicked static shock. By the by, they are amber, not yellow.”

“It is the diamond plating. On the floor of the Jeffries tubes; they build static.” Vorik spoke as if in apology, though he had nothing to do with mildly electrocuting his colleague. 

“It’s alright, kiddo.” 

Vorik glanced down at her, and she looked quickly away, sipping her tea. She had been looking up at the point of his left ear.

Amusement bloomed hot in his mouth, and he almost smiled again. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes. Though I can’t guarantee I will answer it.” She gave him a playful bump on the arm to soften the warning.

“Why are Humans so fascinated by Vulcan ears?”

McMinn glanced at him, the side of his head, and stared out at the stars. Grey eyes narrowed, thoughts turning. “Do you want the long explanation or the Occam’s razor explanation?”

“Both.”

She snorted to hide her laugh. “You would. Alright. The short explanation is that we find them cute.”

“Cute.”

“Yes. Think about it. Humans love cats, love Fennec foxes, prick-ear dogs. What do they all have?” She made an angled motion toward her own rounded pinna and toasted him with her mug when Vorik nodded once in concession. “You see. Pointed ears are cute.

“The long explanation is genetics. Humans and Vulcans are—ahem—compatible. We’re sexually dimorphic bipeds with similar body structures. Our sperm and ova are compatible, to a point, enough that we can conceive without medical help. Keeping that conception going past the blastocyst stage is another matter, but, well.” She shrugged. “It’s like finch beaks. Specialization toward one beak is a good thing as long as the food supply for that beak remains in abundance. Once the food supply diminishes then other beaks start looking mighty attractive.”

“This is a reference to your Charles Darwin, is it not?”

“Exactly that, my lad. In essence, I like your beak. Or feathers. Or in this case, ears. Many Humans do. Not just me. Or not just me specifically.” McMinn was suddenly speaking very fast, a pink blush feathering over her already flushed skin. She was pale, blood coursing just beneath. “I better be getting to bed soon.”

They chatted for an hour back on the bench, until their insomnia began to lag, eyelids heavy, speech slowed. McMinn leaned her head against his shoulder, briefly and in thanks, before returning to her quarters and Patrick Gibson. 

"Are you certain you feel safe going back to your quarters?" He asked, remembering the tears in her eyes. She halted and almost pirouetted to look at him.

"Yes." She sighed, glancing past him to the stars. Searched his dark eyes. Almost said something on the edge of her breath, stopped, ran her fingers through the waterfall of her hair. "It's not that I don't feel safe, Vorik. I am wondering why I am with him at all. Out here, out in Delta, so far from home, I have a feeling a lot of us are together just on contingency, you ken? Someone warm to lay next to at night, someone who will fill empty arms and empty sheets. There is a want for true compatibility. We are all just making do with who we have. And I am questioning my own choices."

Vorik looked down to his own bare feet, the hem of his heavy robes. McMinn's observation struck him hard in his own heart.

"You _do_ see," she said, her voice so soft that anyone but a Vulcan might not have heard it. "Do you need me to stay?"

He glanced at her, the lines of her shoulders and grief darkening her grey eyes. Found that his own tongue refused to come unstuck from the roof of his mouth. He shook his head no.

"Fair," McMinn said, reaching out to take his hand a moment. Gave it a squeeze and seemed not to know how the psi points within his hands sang in joy at her touch. "Let me know if you change your mind, Vorik. Goodnight."

He watched her go.

Vorik sat there for a long time afterward, his arms achingly empty and body cold, yearning for the warmth of another in his bed. Thought of B’Elanna Torres, who was hot enough for them both, her quick hands flying over Engineering consoles, deft fingers reaching for a coupler or inducer and her copper-colored skin smelling faintly of apricots. 

Beautiful, someone whom he admired. Their personalities were a mismatch, but perhaps his cool logic could temper her hot passion. He could be the water to her fire, and when it came time for him to burn—he was close, perhaps, for there had been times when he was talking to McMinn that he daydreamed about taking her on the padded bench there in full view of the stars—he and B’Elanna would burn in the fire together. He would become one in the flames with her.

And yet.

He had spent more time talking to McMinn than he ever had with Torres, off duty. His hour and a half at the luau with Torres was filled with stilted conversation until Paris and Kim pulled chairs up to their table, the moonlit lake clouding over.

The close proximity of pon farr and his dwindling prospects of suitable mates on board rankled him, and Vorik often found himself meditating to quell growing fear. He found himself wishing, as illogical as it was. 

Wishing that he were home with Valen, making love on a blanket under a driftwood pergola.

Wishing that Torres saw him as anything other than a useful ensign.

Wishing that McMinn was not engaged and that he knew her first name.

He contemplated McMinn’s tea mug, half empty and cooling on the bench. Reached for it and drank the rest of her tea, turning the rim so that he could drink from where her lips had touched. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nebulae IC 5070 and Rosette are real objects in space. Check them out!
> 
> The "go fuck yourself" lecture is one I actually attended; it was as hilarious as it sounds. One has not lived until one has seen aged professors laughing so hard they cry.
> 
> This chapter is set right in the midst of "Alter Ego." Everyone on Voyager looks so cute in leis.


	2. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of sexual assault but absolutely nothing graphic.

Soft clicking and electronic pulses reverberated around Vorik, lying on his right side and working in the shelter of small spaces and dim light. His hands were steady with the recoupler and a scanner, skin tinted faintly amber in the panel glow. Whispering “Ar’kada sanu, t’na-veh ni thuli.” Work, please work, he was _so_ tired.  


Vorik looked up and flinched a little when he saw Paris crawling toward him. “Lieutenant?” he called, the long, dark access tube amplifying the faintest note of nervousness in his soft voice.

“How goes it, Vorik? Little dark in here.”

“It goes well, sir. I have finished with three of the relay diodes and shall complete the next seven within two point six hours. I also see the visible light spectrum a little differently than you do, sir. The lighting is sufficient.” He sat, recoupler held loosely in his hand. Even though they were friendly off-duty and had met several times for group caving sessions in the holodeck, he felt unsure of Paris’s intentions. “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”

“No, not really.” Paris gave him a bland smile and pretended to know what he was looking at, beyond the superficial level required of a helm officer. Vorik knew his work to be neat and methodical. “You do good work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Tom.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paris sighed. “Actually, I am here on somewhat personal business, and I wanted to ask you—” He broke off as Vorik took a deep breath and rearranged himself into a subtly defensive position, kneeling with the recoupler held more firmly in his hand. Submission in the hunch of his slender body. Paris looked alarmed and tried to diffuse the situation by lounging against the rounded wall. “You alright?”

“Yes, sir.” The wariness did not fade, and Vorik kept his eyes on Paris. Unnerved and trying to master it.

“Vorik, I am here about the way Torres is treating you. She is constantly criticizing your work in front of your fellow officers. According to Lieutenant Carey, she had you standing up in front of the warp core like an unruly student for an hour yesterday while she double-checked your work on the conversion circuits. And now she has you doing the tasks usually assigned to a midshipman still in the Academy. It doesn’t sit well with me, and I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help.”

“No, sir.”

“This is going to be like pulling teeth, isn’t it?”

“I do not know what you refer to, sir.” 

Paris chuckled. “I mean it will be hard to talk to you about this subject, Ensign.”

Vorik hesitated. “No, sir. I know that on the surface Torres’s criticisms of my work are outsized and unwarranted.”

“You already know? Janeway's noticed and wants Torres to stop. It’s creating a toxic work environment. She sent me to try and diffuse the situation before she has to take disciplinary action.”

“I agree with Torres, in purpose if not in methodology, sir,” Vorik said, meeting Paris’s eyes.  


Paris stared back at him, surprised. “Hey, B’Elanna is my friend, but what she is doing to you is unacceptable.”

Vorik shook his head, closed his eyes and rested his head against the access panel. The reconnector clattered a little as he dropped it carelessly onto his open engineer’s kit. “If her reprimands give her some measure of justice then I will endure them.”

“Justice?”

“Yes, sir.”

Paris kept his voice soft. “What justice are you trying to give B’Elanna, Vorik?”  


The younger man looked to Paris and hesitated, glanced at his tool kit, down at his hands. Made himself raise his eyes and meet his gaze. 

“Permission to speak freely, Lieutenant?”

_ “God, _ yes.”

Vorik took a deep breath. “I am uncertain how to address this with you, sir. I know you… care for Lieutenant Torres. You have exhibited a fondness for her that reaches beyond camaraderie or friendship.”

“Yes.” 

“This is why I hesitate to name why I am submitting to her punitive behavior. I am uncertain if you would allow me to speak fully.”   


“You think I am going to punch your lights out mid-sentence.”   
  
“In so many words, yes.”

“I promise that I won’t. Scout’s honor.” Paris held up his first three fingers, with his thumb folded over the pinkie. Vorik wondered if he knew that he had just made a semi-rude gesture in Vulcan culture. “I really am just trying to make peace.”

“Thank you for your promise, sir. I promise I won’t ‘punch your lights out’ either.” Vorik said, sighing. He considered, dark eyes darting as he searched for the best way to be diplomatic. 

“Torres told you of the mind link that I forced on her in Engineering, sir.”

“Yes. And I remember what it led to. She started to show symptoms of—” He broke off at Vorik’s warning head tilt. “...showing symptoms of that Vulcan thing that we don’t talk about.”

Vorik nodded once with a bleak sort of gratitude. “Yes, sir. What I did, by your Human standards, was commit sexual assault upon Torres. Bonding mind links are the most intimate melds that my people can perform, and they always involve sex. When Torres rejected me I reacted badly— _ that _ Vulcan  _ thing _ that I was enduring robs us of our reason and in that moment I could not physically control the panic I felt—and when I initiated that unwanted bond it was, in essence, a form of sexual assault.”

Vorik shifted, twitched uncomfortably, his disgust with himself painfully evident. He looked down and addressed his hands. “What happened later, when I fought Torres on the planet, was attempted rape.”

He let these words hang in the air, sharp, bitter and exposed.

Paris sat back hard, resting against the wall in a mirror image of Vorik’s posture. Realizing that Torres and Vorik both interpreted the events in a vastly different manner than the Humans around them did. “Tuvok told me and Chakotay to set our phasers to high stun; we would not have let you claim B’Elanna, had you been the victor. We were  _ all _ making the best decisions we could in a desperate situation, Vorik.”

“Then I am grateful for your protection, for both her and my sake.”

The Vulcan popped his knuckles once, pressed his fingertips together in an elaborate sequence designed to keep himself focused. 

“I deeply regret what happened,” Vorik said.

“I know, Vorik.”

“I think that, had I known more about _that_ _thing_ I would have reacted differently and planned accordingly. The culture surrounding certain aspects of Vulcan marriage customs is almost opaque, Tom. It is a failure of my people. It would have been better if someone had spoken with me about it beforehand. Because then I would not have hurt Torres in the first place. Her ways—your ways—are so different from my own that I can be a hazard to myself and those around me.”

Paris considered for a long while, his face pale. Picked up an empty diode and rolled it in his fingers. “She bit me.”

Vorik blinked, shifted to curl in on himself and hugged his knee, drummed his other boot against the deck plating. Shame and relief made for a strange, nearly uncontrollable emotional mix. "Sir?"  


“B’Elanna bit me. Down on the planet. Violence and sex in Klingon culture go hand in hand. It’s… part social posturing and part biological need. Weighing Klingon sexuality against Vulcan sexuality—the little that I know of it—is as hazardous as holding up Human sexuality as a default standard, you know? I admit it. The Captain, Tuvok, Chakotay, hell, even _I_ failed you both.”

Vorik said nothing, only gulped air, felt like crying. Paris’s voice and body language indicated that he understood, and being understood gave him a monumental sense of relief. His commitment to the Disciplines had failed. He would need to be more strict in his meditations, reaching for mastery rather than wallowing in self-pity. 

“Damn it,” Paris whispered. “Ensign Vorik, you look like hell. I’m pulling rank. You’re off-duty for the rest of the day. I’ll come back with you to Engineering and you can choose a replacement for these diode repairs.”

“Sir.”

To Paris’s obvious surprise, Vorik began packing his kit and closed the access panel. Eyes averted, a cultural quirk that Vulcans displayed when uncomfortable or emotionally compromised. In a Human or a Klingon this would signify dishonesty. And while Vulcans could lie, in spite of popular custom that suggested otherwise, Vorik had just been so brutally honest that Paris seemed to understand he was not trying to obfuscate in this matter.

They crawled back toward the corridor in silence, took a moment to rest in a juncture that allowed them to stand and stretch. The close quarters of Jeffries tubes was a necessary evil; without them, starships would be an extra fifty meters wide, but trading space for comfort was hard on the body. These brief moments gave Paris the opportunity to look Vorik over from close up. The Vulcan had definitely lost weight. 

“How are you, otherwise? Off-duty, I mean.” Paris leaned against the wall to show that he was not quite ready to crawl the short distance back to the corridor just yet. 

“Well enough.”

“Did you get to go to the dance party on the holodeck last week? It was harvest themed. Honest-to-God hayride through an apple orchard, this cart pulled by a Denebrian mule.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I thought it best to avoid a large crowd, sir, given my current unpopularity among my department colleagues.” Vorik slumped against the wall and banged his kit restlessly against his knee.

“Hang out with friends, then?”

“No. Nicoletti is often with her boyfriend and Carey has been busy with his lathe. He is creating an artificial valve for a polychamber heart, such as the ones found in A’riians. Apparently his mother was in the medical field.”

“What about that Dell guy you sometimes play dom-jot with?”

“Crewman Dell is likewise currently enamored of his new boyfriend and was found rather… indisposed in the crawlspace behind the propulsion console.” Vorik said, actually appeared faintly amused. “Carey sentenced him to three days in his quarters when not on duty.”

Paris smirked and wondered aloud who the other man was. He had already heard—and forgotten—this gossip and knew that rumor favored Crewman Gennaro. “You need to get out more, Vorik. And I don’t mean the caving routines or sitting in the mess with a padd full of cheap novels, but spending time with friends. That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I thought I told you to call me Tom.”

“I can’t use your given name when responding to an order, sir.” Vorik allowed himself the tiniest smile.

“You got me. So, what are you going to do with your free time?”

“Sleep, sir.”

Paris glanced over him with a critical eye. Vorik knew the dark smudges beneath his eyes looked unhealthy. He led the way back to the corridor and accompanied Paris back to Engineering. A quick look at the duty roster and consultation with Ensign Fukai, and Vorik was sent to his quarters. Already half asleep, by the look of it, a world of guilt taken off of his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The episode "Blood Fever" is a delight for Star Trek fans and also deeply troubling one if one looks at it from a strictly Human point of view. In the wake of the MeToo movement it becomes an uncomfortable episode to watch, though they do address the nature of pon farr and its problematic implications rather well in-show. Paris, Janeway, The Doctor, and Torres are all appropriately appalled, and Vorik exhibits both alarm and shame at what he does to Torres when Tuvok comes to visit him in his quarters. I was always intrigued with how the events of "Blood Fever" might be handled afterward; this chapter was the answer.
> 
> The narrative gets happier from here on out. Promise. :)


	3. Meld

Disastrous. Vorik glanced up at the empty warp core chamber, the loss of the intermix chamber stark and uncanny. Even implacable 7 of 9 paused, considered the gaping space, and tapped at her console with renewed urgency. They had a spare warp core, nestled near the main shuttle bay, but in Delta every component was precious and worth ten times its weight in latinum. 

Going after the core that B’Elanna Torres had ejected was a must.

The engineering department worked on getting the secondary, tertiary, and quaternary systems stabilized while he and Nicoletti had brought the impulse engines back to life. Everyone glanced up as a low impulse hum reverberated through the space. Smiled at one another. Several officers and crewmen turned and gave them a thumbs up, an air high five, even a shaka from Ensign Shibunawa. 

One little thing, one small grace.

Later, the warp core retrieved, it stood as still as some funerary stele, the blue pulse and thrum that everyone was accustomed to gone silent. Better than an empty warp chamber. Small steps.

“She’s not coming out of her office,” Nicoletti said, glancing over her shoulder for the third time in as many minutes. “She needs to be out here, directing.”

“Perhaps Lieutenant Torres has more responsibilities than we know,” Vorik said, diverting power into the air cycling systems and activating it manually. The air smelled stale. Blew a hard breath out between his lips in relief when the vents joined the engine hum. Humidity lifted, and he heard several crew members sigh over their consoles. Raised his voice to speak across Main Engineering. “Crewman Yosa. The secondary power relay is sufficiently charged enough to bring the heating cycle back online from the contingency circuits. Please begin the transfer.”

“Aye sir.” 

“You should be Chief,” Nicoletti said, a shark’s smile swimming across her lips. 

“Perhaps one day.” Vorik paused as a Lieutenant from ops handed him a padd with a systems analysis. Dumping the warp core and bringing it back online required weeks’ worth of work, and the task seemed almost overwhelming. Kaiidth. The best thing to do was put one figurative foot after the other and one would eventually find themselves at their destination.

“You’re more even tempered, Vorik.”

“It is not always a virtue, Suzie.” Vorik tapped at the console and brought up the water systems diagnostic. Vulcans had a reputation for always keeping a professional detachment, even in the height of tense situations; the downside was that they could be prone to fatalism. Logic behaved as Novocaine, numbing and soft.

“There she is. She was with Paris.” Nicoletti snorted and shook her head. Gave Torres and Paris a withering glance as they strolled across the warp bay. “Probably call it an ‘officer’s conference.’”

Vorik didn’t answer, as Liv McMinn had appeared at his shoulder and handed him a padd from her department.

“Communication priority on channels one through six, everything else still offline,” she said, her Edinburgh accent scrubbed to Standard neutral. She winked, pressed close. “No hurry on my subspace comm sweeper; if we aren’t going anywhere it’s nigh useless.”

“I shall alert you when we are about to go underway. That way you can have it online and ready to go.” 

“Nemaiyo.” She thanked him in his home dialect. Pressed her hand briefly against his lower back, and he burned where her hand lingered, even after she pulled away. As  _ Voyager’s _ ad hoc Communications officer she often reported to the Bridge, even if she kept her office on Deck 7. Right now her task was complete; she had kept the communication relays from overloading or dying when under generator power.

The downside was that Ensign Gibson, her now ex-fiancé, had been one of the officers delegated to her team during the overhaul. Their relationship was strained under a veneer of cordiality, and Vorik had gone to her office under pretense more than once to try and alleviate some of the tension. To his credit, Gibson had bowed out, even gave Vorik a respectful nod to acknowledge his right to be there.

“Vorik, Nicoletti. Status?” Torres barked, going to the warp core terminal, checking its progress.

“Impulse engines online, sir,” Vorik replied, noticing that Nicoletti was having a difficult time keeping her temper and was in fact gritting her teeth. Given the choice, she would rather be working under Lieutenant Carey. “I had the crew begin power transfer for primary systems. Secondary systems should be transferable within the hour, but the rest shall have to wait until warp power is restored, sir.”

“Status on warp bump?”

“ETA seventy-three hours.”

“Very well.” 

Paris had lingered, watching Torres with an open expression of fondness. He caught Vorik’s eye as she went to the lift to Level 2. Grinned, turned to go back to the Bridge. Vorik gave him a small wave of acknowledgement and tried to parse his own response to the lieutenant’s gesture. He felt friendship, surely. Wondered if it bordered on love.

This was a familiar pattern for the next two-point-six weeks as they approached full warp capacity. 

The Engineering crew was busiest, while many of the other departments sat idle. Paris was almost a constant fixture in Main Engineering, often under the guise of assisting Torres—not needed, as Engineering was the largest department and they had plenty of hands on deck at all times—and Vorik running interference between Torres and Nicoletti. 

Carey, noticing the tension, made a small team that included Nicoletti and spent their time squirreled away in the Jeffries tubes and between secondary hulls. Vorik remained in Main and found Paris at his elbow more often than not.

“Maybe you and Liv can come on a couples’ date with me and B’Elanna,” Paris said, resetting a series of spanners back to their default settings. “There’s this caving program of Tsuski III that has spectacular karst formations. Then maybe we could finish up at that dance party on Mars Colony.”

Vorik made a non-committal sound and checked the alternator currents with his tricorder. 

“B’Elanna likes dancing, if you believe it. Ballroom. Didn’t think she’d have the patience for it, but she’s full of surprises.”

“Liv likes the Argentine tango.” Vorik frowned, not liking the readings for power transfer leading to the water filtration systems, a dismaying 0.61 second lag. Not sanitary. He placed it high on the assignment docket, where it was immediately whisked away by Crewman Mendez.

“...and Dell was saying he and Gennaro are still going at it like rabbits. Good for them.”

“Liv and I have sex 6.3 times a week on average.” Vorik found a third transfer relay out of sync. Led to the waste disposal systems. Ki’guv. 

“Whoa. Congratulations, man.” Paris grinned.

Vorik blinked at the sudden lift in Paris's volume. “Sorry?”

“You and Liv.”

“Liv?”

“Six-point-three times a week. On average.” Paris practically giggled and reset another spanner. “That’s damn hot.”

Vorik stood still, the tricorder beeping to let him know that it was done with its readings. He didn’t hear it. Had he said that aloud? Had he actually said how often they had sex, aloud, to Paris, in the middle of Engineering? He glanced around, but no one else seemed to have heard. The tricorder beeped louder in protest, and he shut it. Mouth dry. 

_ Idiot. _

“Your cheeks are bright green.” Paris smiled to himself, the joy in his pale eyes bordering on mischievous. “Don’t worry, Vorik, your secret’s safe with me. Mum’s the word.”

“Thank you.”

Vorik mastered the embarrassment that resurfaced throughout the rest of his shift, mollified when Paris stayed true to his word and didn’t bring up his sex life again. Or his own or Dell’s, either. Though Vorik liked the natural camaraderie that flowed between him and Tom Paris he did not enjoy the Human predilection to treat sex as a topic of casual conversation. 

“Catch you later, Vorik.” 

“Tom,” Vorik nodded goodbye to Paris without looking up and took his officer code offline, handed his station over to a beta shift ensign. 

Liv was already in her quarters when he arrived, an ancient, underlined copy of  _ Drop City _ in her lap. Barefoot, out of uniform, a flowing cotton skirt and black tank top highlighting her biceps. 

“How’d it go?” She asked, rising to embrace him.

“Well.” He spoke against her hair, his eyes closed, smelling the cedar oil that she had dabbed beneath one ear. “Paris wants us to go on a double date with him and Torres.”

“That boy always seemed a little tone deaf.” Liv chuckled. “How does he think that’d be a good idea?”

“He is a natural peacemaker.” Vorik felt the need to come to the man’s defense. “And in spite of his amateur attempts, he does seem to be successful more often than not.”

“You sure it’s not a form of codependency?”

Vorik frowned, acknowledging that Liv’s cynicism sometimes annoyed him. He also considered that she might be correct. “Perhaps,” he said, once the moment had passed. He pulled back, leading her to the bed. Wanted to be held for a while.

It was true what he had told Paris. He and Liv made love often, most mornings, something that he had idly calculated late one night when insomnia kept him awake after two hours of sleep. Coming out of deep delta sleep to wakefulness was a common Vulcan quirk of biology. Being unable to fall back asleep for hours on end was not, an affliction that Vorik had experienced periodically since he was a child. It had resurfaced with a vengeance during his first two years at Starfleet Academy and again after  _ Voyager _ had been yanked into Delta Quadrant. Less often, now that he had come to accept their fate. 

“Lights. Out,” she said, and they were left in the dark and the starlight.

He kicked off his boots and let them fall with uncharacteristic laziness, lay back on the turquoise bedspread with Liv riding lightly on his side and closed his eyes. She nuzzled into him, pressed a kiss to the pulse point in his neck. Fell silent. 

Liv had a knack for knowing when people needed silence. Vorik felt that she also knew how to use these silences to lead people into speaking more than they initially meant to. A linguist’s guile; she collected language the way others collected stones, art, or notches on bedposts.

His brother Taurik had a similar talent, though he had often used it with Vorik alone. They never evolved the “twinspeak” common to twin children, but they could communicate with a glance and be perfectly understood, even without using their sibling bond.

This had mystified their friends at the Academy. They also had had a knack for finding one another when one needed the other the most. Liv did the same, visiting him in Engineering the past few weeks, crawling to him in a Jeffries tube and holding a torchbox while he worked. Silent, without speech.

His fingers found the lines and curves of her back, traced the planes of her scapula, the gentle slope of her left shoulder. A scar she had attained when serving aboard the  _ Grissom.  _ She left some of her scars, feeling she had earned them. This particular one was from an away team mission, collecting samples of language from ancient religious texts on Galador II. One of the minor archivists had felt that outsiders should not have access, even to apocrypha, and wielded a knife. 

The subtle hum of the impulse engines brought him more comfort than he had anticipated, and he found himself drowsing, on the edge of consciousness. Liv was awake, judging by her breathing, though she remained still. Warm. Her hand resting over his heart, thrumming in his side.

Contentment lowered his defenses, and the telepathic shields he upheld through most of his days relaxed. Let Liv in, a little. He could only superficially sense her in this manner: her happiness, amusement, a squirrelling thought of the characters in her book. On Vulcan such attachment to the people around him was as natural as breathing, as natural as rain. Part of his environment, part of him. Life in Starfleet could be so lonely without the company of other telepaths. Life on  _ Voyager _ sometimes felt doubly alone, even with Liv in his arms.

Without knowing it, he had begun to caress her face, the high cheekbone, the round edge of her left ear. The arch of her eyebrow. Exotic, to him.

She shivered, smiled into his chest. 

His fingers drew to the meld points in her face, came to rest in position as each telepathic pathway opened to him. A gesture of habit and instinct.

The first touch of her mind was like the pour of warm water on chilled skin. He sighed, muscles releasing tension that he had not been aware that he had. She opened to him, like the first seep of dawn over the edge of the desert, when morning birds sang and—

“Oh,” Liv said, one clear note of wonder.

Vorik realized what he was doing. Flinched. Discordant clanging sounded down the telepathic link. He withdrew and removed his hand. “Forgive me.” He struggled, sat, swung his legs off of the bed.

Liv curled up into a fetal position for one brief moment, her expression tracing somewhere between pain and bewilderment. She sat, rust-orange skirts pooling around her crossed legs. Grey eyes dilated so that they appeared dark, like gunmetal. “Why did you stop?”

“I should not. I do not have the proper training to—” Vorik broke off. Of course he had had the proper training to form a telepathic meld. Had since he was four years old, when his parents allowed him to meld with his baby sister. Bal, cooing and kicking in her crib. Her dark brown eyes almost black, as deep at his own. Their father standing over them, murmuring words of encouragement. The soft yellow gown that she wore and her little feet in linen booties.

Vorik swallowed, his throat knotting with pain, fear, grief. 

He knew where the fear came from, at least. His disastrous meld with Torres, the shaky and perforated link that he had made with her, not knowing the damage that he could do. Shame washed over him anew as he remembered Tuvok coming to his quarters, the spike of self-loathing as he was informed about what he had done. Illogic had clawed into the forefront of his mind, presenting ill-thought solutions that would have proved doubly disastrous had he implemented them. He remembered the metallic taste of animalistic fear and desire in his mouth, grinding between his teeth. 

“Vorik?”

Tuvok had later melded with him to strip the last vestiges of the mating bond from his mind. Left him feeling raw and exposed. As though the wounds had been in his flesh, rather than his mind.

“Vorik.”

“Yes,” he said. Closed his eyes and swallowed against the nausea that traced up his tongue. Caught at the air for a full breath.

“Ashalik?”

“I ask for forgiveness. It was not my intention to meld with you without asking.”

“Then I give express permission.” Liv took his hand into both of her own and held it as if it were something precious that she had found. Vorik glanced over at her, taking in the wide eyes, the cascade of her hair, the compassion turned full bore onto him. “And there is nothing to forgive. Telepathic communication is a part of who you are, isn’t it?”

A timorous thread of joy and hope pulled through him. Vorik nodded, not trusting his words. At least his breathing had calmed. 

“Please,” she said, guiding his hand back up to her face. “Please. I liked it.”

Joy and hope found a foothold, and Vorik climbed back onto the bed, lay with Liv watching him, on her right side. 

He found the psi points in her face, the ruddiness of her cheeks blushing deeper rose as he eased back into the light meld that they had shared. Again, the slow rise of warmth, the opening of her mind to his. Warm water, pouring against and around and through. Liv gasped, closed her eyes. Vorik smiled against the pillow, remembering how overwhelmed he had been as a boy, Bal’s baby mind crashing into his with unmastered joy, a sister’s eager embrace of her brother’s mind.

Images and tastes coiled and curled, difficult to identify. Liv’s joy sparked watercolour yellow, her trepidation navy blue, like ink. She tasted of sweet lemon, of warm bread. She thought he tasted of tangy citrus fruits, something mixed and tangy-sweet and undefinable. His colors were deep green and gold. 

_ Ashalik. _

The word came from them both: darling. 

Vorik kept the meld light, loath to press deeper, where words became images and images became concepts and impressionistic thought dominated, required parsing that neither of them were ready for, not yet. They needed to know each other better.

“It is like a current,” Liv whispered as he withdrew entirely. “It is like being caught in a river current, but I am unafraid. I don’t know where it will take us but I also know that I am safe, with you. We are safe together. Thank you.”

Tears coursed sideways from her eyes, rolled over the bridge of her nose. He heard them tapping against the pillow. Low light from the stars outside the port caught in them, traced silver.

“Why are you crying?” Vorik wiped the tears from her nose with the pad of his thumb.

Liv sighed, a shaking breath that suggested that she had never breathed before. “After that… After being that close to you I suddenly feel very alone in my own skin.”

“It is like that, at first. It feels like being reborn.” Vorik kissed the salt of her tears from his own thumb. Leaned forward and kissed her forehead over what Humans called the third eye. His lips left the impression of Liv’s tears on her skin as if he had anointed her in benediction. “Thank you,” he murmured. Feeling sated. Better than sex. After a meld the sharing of mere bodies seemed trite. 

Words suddenly seemed trite, and Liv cuddled into him, butting his chest with her head as if trying to burrow into him, chasing the closeness that the meld let them sample. Vorik smiled against her hair.

Wished that she could see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liv is reading Drop City by TC Boyle. It comes highly recommended.


	4. Kal'i'farr

“Stop making unhappy noises.”

“I am not.” Vorik tilted his head to one side as Taurik buttoned up the complicated toggle collar of his wedding robes. The soft, copper-brown wool was too warm for early autumn, but alternative wedding clothes would take too long to make. He simply wore the ones in which Taurik had been married. “Why did they have to talk to Liv about  _ that _ last night?”

“Women of the Clan always talk to one another before one of their men is wed. It is tradition.” Taurik’s mouth twisted in wry depreciation at Vorik’s euphemism for pon farr. A hissed  _ this, _ a disdainful  _ that. _ “Hold still. I cannot get this last if you keep fidgeting.”

“You are crushing my trachea.”

Taurik pushed his fingers into Vorik’s throat with deliberate precision. Smirked when Vorik coughed, glared, tried to step on his foot but trod upon the robe and yanked his own head down. A lingering rush of brotherly antagonism flickered across their sibling bond.

_ “That _ was crushing your trachea. There. Now you are presentable.”

“Thank you.” Vorik listened to the murmur of voices in the corridor. Their ancestral Clan place of Marriage or Challenge stood on a fortified hilltop within view of the Voroth Sea, the stone-block structure militaristic and thick-walled. This kept out the heat of midday, but the labyrinthine halls were filled with shadows, echoes, long winds that exhaled from cold chambers deep within. He had never cared for it. 

But Liv had few living relatives, did not yearn for a traditional Human ceremony, and indeed had friends enough on Vulcan to stand with her: her host brother Sul and his wife L’Niri, from when she studied at the Kwil’inor Language Arts Academy. Her host mother N’Vea. Her paternal Aunt Eivor and much younger half-sister Annora had arrived from Earth, along with Lieutenant Suzi Shimizu. An odd wedding party by Vulcan standards, but a fairly common sight in Starfleet, when weddings often took place aboard stations or ships, with the local Captain presiding. 

Vulcans, because of their mating cycles and the deadly nature of unfulfilled plak tow, still did not intermarry often with outsiders. Childhood bonding often prevented—or prohibited in traditionalist Clans—later love matches, but they were assurance against an agonizing death. 

Vorik knew that there was a fair case to accuse Vulcans of xenophobia in this matter. But among his family and Clan the open-minded individuals outnumbered the conservative stalwarts, and he had seen Vir wearing an Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations pin on his collar, Bal an IDIC pendant as they milled about the Great Hall. Indeed, the Clan Mother, T’Zan, had been deep in conversation with Eivor and N’Vea over the merits of importing natural-grown grains versus vat harvesting in times of planetary drought.

“Vorik-kan’bu,” T’Sara’s voice drifted down the hallway, a sweet, clear note above the murmur of his people. 

“Time, d’Sakai” Taurik said. His expression was still wan, a little distant. Their seven and a half years apart, Vorik’s prematurely assumed death and figurative resurrection was enough to create tension on its own; that Taurik was a Dominion War veteran and Vorik had blithely wandered back from the Delta Quadrant unharmed set them even further apart. Vorik knew that his brother’s distance was not a personal grudge, but it still hurt, deep down where the Vulcan heart burned with primal emotions that sometimes still crippled even the strongest among them. 

He had a feeling that Taurik’s jab at his throat was not entirely playful, but a subliminal gesture of dominance, perhaps even revenge. 

Vorik walked next to his brother, trying to quell the sense of unease that tugged through him. 

The Great Hall loomed high and dark at the apex, banners of silky yellow cloth swaying in the perpetual wind that blew through the space, in one doorway and out the other. Ancient calligraphy for the Directional Winds and seasonal storms were embroidered on these banners, and as a child Vorik had been made to recite a mnemonic rhyme in order to remember them all. His family was represented by the Deshtev wind, their heraldry symbol the outstretched wings of the masutra-guhl bird. 

His people were already arranged in family order close to the central altar, where T’Zan stood waiting in soft yellow robes, her expression open and fond beneath her white braids. Three low braziers burned with flames jutting toward the northern door, set open to reveal the rolling evergreen forest. The largest brazier stood behind T’Zan, and she turned to drop a handful of cedar chips into it; the air filled with the sweet, woody scent. N’Vea was subtly directing Liv’s family and friends, nudging Eivor and Annora into the front of the group, lining Shimizu, Sul, L’Niri just behind them.

Vorik glanced toward his mother standing next to the rightmost brazier, T’Sara murmuring something to his step-father Vir. Taurik took his place next to his wife, L’Del. Their brother-in-law Stonn and sister Bal stood with tiny Talys on her hip, while their youngest sister, T’Shara, stood slightly apart, regally detached and yet unwed, a little matriarch in the making.

He tried not to think of his father’s absence. Tybik. He had died while Vorik was still stranded in Delta Quadrant. No goodbyes, no funeral. His family had at least gotten that closure. For Vorik there was only absence and the ache of loss. 

When he turned back to the central altar he noticed that Liv had materialized at his side, preternaturally silent on bare feet over stone. Looked up at him with that one-sided smile and stood close, her grey eyes picking up the silvery blue of her wedding dress. Wool, like his, high at the collar and sleeves to the wrist, hem hiding all but her toes. Her hair was down, and it danced in the sea-scented wind. 

T’Zan lifted her voice in a booming contralto, surprising for such a small, elderly woman. Vorik jumped a little, as he had when he was a boy, at the strength of her voice. She spoke in Raalian Vulcan, a dialect for which Liv had a passing understanding. She turned when she was supposed to, spoke the correct call and response, the Edinburgh accent blurring the words a little. A burr where there was supposed to be a sharp, rhotic r, a round vowel where there was supposed to be a shallow one. Vorik barely kept the smile from his mouth, but he could not keep it from his dark eyes, and Liv responded in kind. 

Where weddings he attended as a boy seemed to drag on, he found that his own passed in a matter of moments. Then Liv pressed into his arms in a brief embrace before turning her back to him and standing to receive their joined families. Vorik caressed her paired fingers with his own, the new marriage bond singing between them. 

_ Vorik? _

_ Yes. _

_ Oh. This is… _

_?? _

_ Yaldi, strange, it is  _ strange.

And he laughed aloud, unashamed for once in his life. Liv’s eyes were watering with joy and love and fear, for the marriage bond was strange to him, as well. Their presence in each other’s minds almost physical, the Bond was so strong. Disorienting. And now he understood why marriages of antiquity always took place when the man burned; with all of his mental faculties intact he had too much time to think and feel and analyze the strange new sensation. 

His mind read Liv as soft caresses of lavender and thistle purple, a smell of vanilla, baking bread, salt. The raindrops of her Human-cool fingertips, the tickling brush of her windblown hair that fell in waves against his shoulder. She sounded like deep, soft percussion, like the slow dawn of sunrise, like the hum of a forest opening its throat under a summer deluge.

His family seemed to understand, and Liv’s people too, for N’Vea murmured against his collar that the cause for his laughter was sufficient, and even his shy, taciturn step-father gave him the tiniest smile of welcome. 

And because weddings among his people usually took place in the burn of pon farr they had no use for lingering ceremonies once the couple stood bonded. Everyone filtered out of the Hall to their own family reception, leaving Liv and Vorik alone with T’Zan.

“Be well, Children,” she said, presenting a folded bundle of light yellow linen to Liv. Held her right hand in the ta’al. “Sochya eh dif.”

“Sochya eh dif, Mother,” Vorik said in return, blushing as Liv’s hands dipped with the unexpected weight of the bundle. He knew what was in it, though by Liv’s puzzled telepathic inquiry, she did not.

He waited until T’Zan had gone and Liv shifted the linen bundle to her hip. Led his bride to their temporary rooms with his fingers paired to hers.

“Oh,” Liv gasped, for their Bond flared and sang at a higher key at this touch, and as an experiment Vorik traced the pads of his first two fingers down the back of hers. They both shivered at the touch, the sensual burn and prickle of skin. He continued down the back of her hand, around her slender wrist, up again the pair their fingers together.

Their rooms were dark and spare, a bed taking up most of one and the other containing a copper bathing basin, an ancient-looking pewter pitcher, soft robes, a cake of soft soap. A copper spigot for water stood out from one wall. Another door, closed, most likely led to a modern water closet. Windowless rooms, well aired and cooled by channels hidden high within the vaulted ceiling. A brazier burned in each chamber, the orange pulse of flames suggestive of bodies in the throes of mating. Vorik was glad for the dark, for Liv had knelt on the wide, thick bed and unraveled the bundle. His blush was hot and green over his cheeks.

“Oh.” Liv said. It seemed like the only thing she had said since the ceremony. A tremor of amusement bounded up and back along their Bond so that neither knew whom it came from. 

Inside were two iron restraints, both oval, one the length of Vorik’s forearm and the other the length of his shin. Two leather-padded holes had been cut in each, the ovals hinged along the long middle length. An on-thela crop, made of hardwood, handle wrapped in sea bird leather, lay in the bundle as well.

“So this is what your mother was so obliquely referring to,” Liv said, finding her voice at last. Though her expression was sober the amusement was most definitely hers. “Bal translated, bless her.”

“Bal has a talent for social grace that no one else in our family seems to possess,” Vorik said, resolutely not looking at the cuffs and crop. Examining the backs of his eyelids, in fact. “We do not need those. Not now.”

And indeed they did not; the cuffs and crop were meant to restrain an unruly, perhaps violent male in the hottest burn of plak tow. Neither was meant for the milder form of post-wedding consummation. The presence of the overlarge bed and off-white sheets unnerved him, as did the fact that his family and Liv’s were approximately ninety meters away and in full knowledge of what these rooms were for. What he and Liv would be doing in the next few minutes. Vorik wished that he  _ did _ burn, for it might immolate some of his embarrassment.

“Hey.”

Vorik opened his eyes and found that he had clapped his hands over his nose and mouth without realizing he had done so. He straightened, trying to pull himself into the refined poise that he had possessed during the ceremony. Did not know that he had rumpled his hair out of place and that the cowlick over his right temple was an imperfection that Liv found charming.

And here she stood on the bed, lifting her skirts up to the knee, advancing toward him in slow motion as her bare feet sank into the mattress and disheveled the blankets. She hiked her skirts higher, revealing hard-muscled thighs, and Vorik watched them glimmer with sweat in the dim light. “We don’t have to, you know.” 

“I want to,” he said, reaching up and undoing the collar, tight against his throat.

“We don’t want you to be embarrassed,” Liv purred, pulling her skirts even higher and letting them pool down between her legs a little. Narrow loins, the curve of her hips. 

He could smell her body, the salt of her sweat, the water born of Earth’s oceans in her veins. She was naked under the dress.

“Maybe we should abstain.” Her voice teased. She had drawn up to him, the bed high enough that Vorik’s face was even with her belly. “Are you sure, Masu-t’na veh?”

Vorik circled her croup with his arms and pulled her toward him, his strength three times that of hers. Liv sighed with want and placed her hands on his temples, where their Bond sang redoubled. He lifted her off of the bed with his face buried at the join of her loins and thighs. Breathing deep, wanting to taste. Wanting to devour. 

*****

_ Is it always like this? _

_ I do not know. I was only ever betrothed. That was nothing like this. _

_ You think loud. _

_ As do you, Hlíf.  _

_ Up to eleven. _

He understood the cultural reference without having experienced it before: satire, humor, an ancient reference to Human comedy. And applicable to their new situation.

Vorik and Liv lay together in lazy contentment, half drowsing, thinking in words, feelings, and desires along the Bond. Finding out what evoked image, evoked taste or sensation. What evoked a smile. Or tears. Liv wept at it, the closeness that their marriage bond afforded. How pale light melds and sex had been, how wanting, compared to this. How the boundaries of their bodies kept them so far apart, even as they lay skin to skin. How deep the mind-link reached. They felt always caressed. 

He held her, tracing the lines of her body with his fingertips. Flinched when the slotted window on the door slid open on oiled tracks, a sound that Liv could not hear but he could. She lifted her eyes as well, alerted by the change in telepathic frequency. 

The Clan Mother’s white braids appeared for a moment in the dark void beyond the door. Listening. Confirming their post-coital chatter.

_ The hell? _ Sparks of Liv’s anger, red and gold.

“Cultural difference. I do not like it, either, though I was taught from a young age that it is necessary.” Vorik kept from the Bond that he had heard the listening slot slide open once while they made love, the Mother listening in for a moment, the aperture sliding closed again. “In previous centuries the Clan Mother would have sat in the room with us for our first mating to make sure the marriage was consummated properly. It is a holdover from when marriage was to reinforce Clan alliances and from our unfortunate centuries’ worth of eugenics-by-marriage.”

“Thank you for explaining this in advance.” Liv kept her voice neutral in the way of a cultural xenoanthropologist or a mental health counselor, but through the bond he could taste her sarcasm, of crumbled, bitter alkali salts. Images of analog clocks, a half-closed door, an open robe on her smooth body.

His sheepish embarrassment tasted of evergreen needles. He thought of the dim spaces beneath juniper trees. Hot, dusty shadows and needle duff.

“I like that. That image.” Liv’s speaking voice was sleepy, whereas her mind voice was wide awake. “My people would have thought of a tortoise hiding in its shell.”

“Vulcan has no analogous vertebrates,” Vorik said by way of explanation. “Our shorthand for shame are burrowing beetles.”

“You’re a beetle.”

He chuckled at her non-sequitur. Sophomoric, childish, amusing. He thought of Taurik, the brotherly bickering that they had traded back and forth as children and young men, his brother’s love, encouragement, the sour and shocking anger that Taurik now held, deeply buried and in check. His heart ached.

“Give him time.” Liv spoke against his skin, her breath hot on his shoulder. 

She kissed his clavicle, where she had bitten him hard. When she had done so she had been thinking of a Cardassian friend of hers, a scientist who had been friendly to Humans. Memories of the woman’s large brown eyes and whispered revelations about Cardassian biology. The thought had been a flicker, then gone, leaving a moment of oral curiosity and impulse. Vorik had liked it. Liked the green bruise that he could see on the edges of his vision. 

“What happens after this?” 

“We go home. Because we are not being wed at the traditional Time we do not have to observe traditional protocols. You can spend time with your family before they depart. Raal has much to offer.”

They had begun to move together again, lying on their sides with legs tangled. Vorik rested one hand on her breast, admired the arch of her spine, the roundness of her croup against his flat belly. Liv turned until she lay half on her back, his thigh coming up between her legs. They had always been evenly matched in open affection and sexual drive, a fortunate coincidence that was not always the rule for marriage. His maternal aunt and her husband lived apart, whereas his parents had been deeply in love the entire course of their lives together. Though they had never been open about it—they were still Vulcans, after all—their family life had been harmonious, parental contentment trickling down through the sibling bonds of all of their offspring. Vorik had often caught them together, staring into one another’s eyes and loving thoughts from their Bond warming their expressions. Sorrow at his father's death mixed with his desire, giving pleasure a poignant edge. Liv gasped into his palm, which she had drawn up to cover her face.

He caught a glimpse of the cuffs and crop on the floor by the bed and did not find them so distressing anymore; T’Sara and Tybik had often returned from their Seclusion with a sort of giddy exhaustion, physical affection obvious between them for a month afterward. Tybik had caught his wife’s hand and kissed the wrist as she passed by in the common room. T’Sara had stroked his thigh as he stood over the kitchen cutting board. At the time Vorik had blushed green to his ears and Taurik had arched an eyebrow in disapproval. Their sisters had been disinterested, making nuisances of themselves by playing dolls or sim’re at’cha in the middle of the flagstones. Vorik found himself wishing for the harmony of those moments.

Building a family of his own brought his grief welling back.

Liv slowed, her movements becoming more sensual than erotic. Vorik locked eyes with her, caressed her face and trembled with her as the Bond allowed them to come together. A release of sorrow as well as of desire.

He spooned against her as the night came down, the windowless room cooling to the point of cold. Liv pulled up a shelter of covers around them and lay with her head against his chest so that her heart aligned with his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I've ever said, but Liv is modeled after actress Freya Mavor.


	5. Chapter 5

Vorik smiled to himself as he adjusted the ODN coupler to take the main decon array offline. He was high in an interior access wall deep in the saucer section; no one would see anyway.

Wherever Liv was on Cardassia she was happy, the emotion sensed as flickers of yellow and rose, an effervescent quality of joy. Her desire for him sang at a lower key, as if deep in her throat. He thought of wind, blowing low over the sea at night. 

Liv had accepted a detail aboard the  _ USS Osage _ while  _ Voyager _ remained at Utopia Planitia Shipyards above Mars. Vorik had remained with  _ Voyager _ to ready her for a three-year mission to the Beta frontier, to be helmed by Captain Chakotay. This was an ideal place for the stout ship, for a few of the species that the crew had met in Delta—the Yattho and the Cardassian-like Ath’lii—had migrated through the area. Though none of the contacted settlements were the homes of old friends, they had a ring of familiarity. 

Captain Chakotay had requested a few dozen of his Delta Quadrant crew accompany him. Vorik had responded with an enthusiastic, if subdued, affirmative until he learned of Liv’s detail with the  _ Osage _ . 

He had stood in their quarters and with clenched teeth reminded her that being parted at such a potentially  _ sensitive time _ was ill-advised. She had taken in his expression of mild panic and offered to remain on  _ Voyager, _ or better yet, perhaps he could take a detail with her, at Cardassia? Artio Herself knew their former enemies could use a Starfleet engineer or two to create new infrastructure on the decimated planet. 

Aiding the very people who had shot at his brother Taurik did not appeal to Vorik. Liv had abandoned her cajoling when she saw the hardness of his dark eyes and the dismayed set of his broad mouth. Had put up her hands in surrender and said they would look for another option.

A compromise arrived; travel between the home worlds was efficient enough that they could rendezvous on Vulcan if he left for home the moment he experienced symptoms of pon farr. She would meet him in Raal, where he was born. 

Pon farr was not an exact science; seven years was the median. Some Vulcan men experienced it at exactly regular intervals, some at a vague range of time. His first had been almost exactly seven years previous. As long as it did not come upon him suddenly, he would make it home in time. 

Vorik shuddered, vaguely nauseated at the possibility that he would need to endure pon farr anywhere but on Vulcan, in a house of Seclusion with his Clan nearby and tradition enshrining his marriage. 

He had vowed that he would pay attention to his body this time. 

The alternative was either deadly or deeply, deeply embarrassing.

The recoupler beeped in warning, and Vorik pulled it away from the relay. Almost overdone, the relay beginning to fuse to the circuitry. He frowned, pulled his attention back to the present and went to the next junction.

He looked forward to children and delighted in his niece, Talys. She sent him weekly status reports of her life, her mannerisms just like that of Taurik’s in exact miniature. Her resemblance to her father—identical to Vorik—was amusing, from the downward tilt of her head as she made eye contact through her long lashes, to the drawling Raalian cadence. He enjoyed her long messages about school, her new easel, the autographed collection of  _ Sacred Artemis _ comics that her Uncle Sammy had sent from Mars Colony. And did he know? She might be getting a new brother or sister maybe next year. 

The recoupler beeped again, and Vorik peered at the relay. Fully fused. 

“Pekh,” he cursed, reaching for a pry bar. Popped the relay free and let it clink across the floor. He replaced the diode and scowled at it for a moment, willing himself to focus before applying the beam.

Sleep often eluded him since Liv left. He woke abruptly, groping her empty pillow instead of caressing her face for a middle of the night meld, or else woke in the morning with his body full of desire and no beloved friend with whom he could share it. He ate breakfast alone, too short-tempered to go to the mess for company. He had always woken up slow, cranky, reaching for the Disciplines. 

Footsteps reverberated down the narrow passage, echoing behind a stand of GNDN piping at his left. Disorienting. Whomever it was could be close by or faraway in the maze of secondary halls and catwalks hidden behind  _ Voyager’s _ sleek corridors.

“Hey Vorik!” Close by. 

“Tom.”

Lieutenant Commander Paris climbed up onto the secondary platform, bringing with him a minty scent of recycled air and cool hallway. It must be the lunch hour. 

At first Vorik had thought that Paris offered his friendship as a diplomatic maneuver after he had tried to mate with B’Elanna Torres. Tension had continued to run high between the Vulcan and the Chief Engineer months after  _ that _ deeply unfortunate incident. They had eventually gained an uneasy truce that Paris had advocated for. Vorik was still not friends with Torres—never would be—but they had worked together well for the remainder of the journey home. 

Later, when Torres and Paris began their courtship, Paris continued to seek him out for the occasional lunch, holodeck adventure, or shoreleave. He was abashed to find that Paris meant his friendship honestly and still visited him often. Now he glanced at his kit, estimated the work he had left to do, and shut the recoupler off.

“Hungry?” Paris grinned. 

Not really. Vorik nodded a silent affirmative anyway and went with his friend back to the narrow access door, disguised to resemble a solid panel just outside of Sickbay.

“Today is hasperat. The spicy kind.” Paris strolled in a loose, rolling gate, flashing a grin at anyone who passed. Fatherhood had improved him much; responsibility now tempered his irreverence. He was more patient, less apt to flit from interest to interest. “Of course, if you slip Mera some latinum she will make it hotter. Thai hot, even.”

The mess was three quarters empty by the time they arrived; evidently Vorik had missed the set hour. No matter. Survey exploration was slow work and the schedule loosened to accommodate idle officers. Mera waved a friendly hello from the kitchen and adjusted the color of the plum purple dress she wore; as a Ferengi woman she had yet to master the feeling of clothing against her skin.  


Vorik ate sedately with his personal padd set on the table next to his cup of tea; he expected a communique from Taurik about the houses of Seclusion. Bal had the responsibility this year to prepare them for the couples of the Clan. Such communication was couched in ritual and ponderous turns of phrase. Vorik hated it and was glad that Taurik’s in-born equilibrium allowed him greater fortitude when dealing with such matters. Vorik compensated by arranging holiday visits with their more unpleasant relatives and sending Taurik’s regrets at his lack of attendance. 

“So where are you going on your vacation?” Paris asked, his eyes already watering.

“Vulcan.” 

“Really? Didn’t you just come from there six months ago? How about Tolor VI or the moons of Klei? Hell, even Risa, if you want a tropical beach to frolic on. Swimsuits optional.” Paris grinned, a dark swatch of kirata herb caught between his teeth. He discretely removed it behind a napkin when Vorik tapped his own teeth.

“Vulcan is beautiful this time of year,” Vorik said. Blinked and realized that he didn’t know what time of year it was, back home. Probably late Ki’ri’lior. He gave his padd a discrete nudge as Paris swigged milk and found it was the seventh day of et’Khior, the time of year then the Nine Stars were in the sky. 

“I’ve never been to your planet.”

“Do not go during the time of falek-vakh, the summer season in the northern hemisphere. The southern is more hospitable during that time, but the tides are at their highest and Xir’tan crowded. Of course, there is always the city of Vulcana Regar.” Vorik’s lips twitched with a faint expression of distaste.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing. Liv likes it. She says it is tacky and that she ‘likes a dose of tacky.’ She also excels at skee ball. Its economy is largely tourism, if that says anything. Taverns, arcades, crane games, more taverns, cheap souvenirs and amateur dinner theater—” He broke off when he noticed Paris grinning. “On the other hand,  _ you _ might enjoy it.”

“I think I might. Maybe take Miral with me. She’d love an arcade. And I could win a plush sehlat for Korë.”

“My brother Taurik enjoys going with Liv. He says it is good for ‘people watching.’”

“The eternal parade.” Paris was enjoying himself, his smile light and teasing, almost brotherly.  


Vorik sipped his tea before it cooled too much, satisfied that he had steered the conversation away from—

“So where are you going on Vulcan?”

Damn the Human and his solicitous nature. Vorik took a deep breath and considered how best to phrase a lie so that it would not be an outright falsehood. 

“Liv and I are… taking a second honeymoon.”

Paris leaned across the table, his voice pitched so softly that Vorik alone could hear him. “Is this that thing we don’t talk about?” 

“Yes.”

“Consider the subject dropped.” Paris straightened. “Where do you run and hide to, while Liv and your brother are people watching at Regar?”

“The Osana Caverns. They lie just southwest of Raal, on the border of Gol.”

“Okay, let’s make a date then. I’ll come to Vulcan with Miral and Korë and take them to the arcades, then we’ll take a bachelor’s trip to the Caverns and downclimb until we find the center of the planet. Deal?” 

“Agreed.” Vorik had to admit that the idea pleased him. “Liv would welcome you.”

“How ‘bout the kids?”

“We both welcome them. We are going to try for a child of our own.”

“Congratulations, man.” Paris wriggled with joy, a motion that Vorik found endearing, almost puppyish. “Kids are great. They are the greatest part of my life. Korë’s just a little guy, still in that sweet toddler stage, but Miral’s gotten to be so interesting. Did you know she recently built her own custom padd?”

“You have told me on several occasions,” Vorik said, softening his eyes in one of the almost-smiles Vulcans were known for. “It is unfortunate that Starfleet no longer allows families aboard active starships. I know it is difficult for you to be apart from them.”

“Yeah, but after the loss of  _ Enterprise-D _ and the Dominion War… It’s a good thing. Think of how much worse the War would have been if—” Paris left the “if” unsaid, his eyes focused far away and seeing his absent children. Miral, with the faint bony ridges on her forehead and Korë who took more after his Human father by a fluke of genetics. “Anyway. They’re happy here on Mars Colony. Once  _ Voyager _ is deployed they’ll stay on Starbase 123. We’ll see how that goes. Miral says she wants to be a Chief Engineer of Ops and that she’ll intern at the starbase. I tried to explain to her that that isn’t a real position, but she called me a qoH.”

Vorik raised an eyebrow in silent question.

“It means idiot. Or fool. Or dork, judging by how she says it.”

“Dork?”

“Yeah, I’m not sure of the etymology of that one. Sorry.” Paris finished his hasperat and swiped his wrist across watering eyes. “Liv would know.”

“Liv would.”

Vorik said Liv’s name often, just to feel it in his mouth. He noticed that Paris had not mentioned Torres once in their hour together, though he had brought his daughter and small son up several times. Curious. 

“You’d prefer a boy or a girl?” Paris asked, considering the dessert tray that Mera had parked on the counter. 

“I have no preference. Human-Vulcan hybrids require a fair amount of genetic engineering, more so than Human-Klingon children. You and Torres have the benefit of having similar blood types. Iron- and copper-based hemoglobin do not ‘like each other’ as The Doctor once put it. The fetus requires extensive medical intervention at the end of the first trimester if it is to thrive.” Vorik frowned and crossed his arms across his chest in a self-protective gesture. “Not all couples between our two species find their biology compatible.” 

“Hey, don’t borrow trouble.” Paris’s voice was soft. “Cross bridges when you come to them, otherwise you’ll exhaust yourself thinking about the what-ifs before you even get there.”

“A new philosophy of yours?” Vorik smiled a little to show he was teasing. 

“Papa Philosophy. A new kind of Zen. You want a dessert? You hardly touched your food.” 

Vorik put up a hand in refusal and made himself eat several bites of his hasperat roll while Paris retrieved a swirl of chocolate mousse topped with slivers of red rai fruit. He came back with a small cup of cappuccino from the replicator, and the scent made Vorik’s stomach turn. He hated the smell of steamed milk.

“You okay?” Paris looked at him with faint alarm.

“I am well.”

“You were snarling.”

“Perhaps my hasperat was too hot.” Vorik drank his tea to give his mouth something to do. He was tired. He wanted to finish his work and go off-shift and try to catch up on sleep. His insomnia, a sporadic irritation he had experienced since childhood, was now almost constant.

“Better get back to it, Vorik.” Paris sighed a few minutes later and rose with his emptied plates. “Be sure to eat something. See you this evening at The Phobos? Eight-ish? Harry's coming with Ezri Dax.”

Vorik considered his mostly full plate and half-finished tea. Shook his head. “I need sleep tonight. Thank you.”

“Alighty. See you tomorrow, then. At 13:00 sharp, this time.” Paris gave a charming wink, half flirtation, and took his tray to the recycler. 

Vorik slid out of his seat and took his tray. He still had three sections of diodes to check and weld.

This was a task beneath his rank, for he was now a junior grade Lieutenant and had a team of a dozen ensigns and midshipmen who could be completing such tedious work. But the narrow sub-hallways soothed him, with their air warmed by the flow of water, plasma, and electricity through pipes and cables. The steady throb of engines pulsed through there, for the access halls were less insulated from noise. Rather, the insulation worked the opposite way, and he could not hear people talking. 

That suited him fine.

The fused diode blew in tight circles across the diamond plating as he returned, his tools lying scattered on the floor and half out of the case. He frowned. Usually he put his tools back in order; hopefully this had been only a momentary lapse and not someone running amok behind the walls, upsetting engineers’ toolkits. Stranger things had happened. A cursory look proved that nothing was missing. More tired than he thought.

He woke up later that night, drenched in sweat and heart pounding.

"Beling," he muttered, clamping his sweat-slick hands over his eyes. Berated himself. _Of course. Of course you would ignore all of the symptoms. Of course you are obstinate. Of course you are, frankly, this stupid, Vorik. No wonder your name can translate to "throwback." You have all of the bad sense your ancestors sought to discard, t'bar'ez._

The marriage bond with Liv sung as though it were a taught string of iron cable stretching into the dark void of space. He must pull himself along it, sweating and sick, his head pounding in time with his heart. Vorik could sense her along their Bond, Liv's fear and concern, her comprehension of what this feeling must mean. Her questions tasted metallic, like Human adrenaline, like aluminium bitten between the teeth. Vorik lay his hands over his swollen sex and shuddered with misery, mentally rehearsing the steps it would take to get out of bed, send a confirming subspace message to Liv, to Bal. Tell Chakotay that he must return home. Arrange transport and—Vorik laughed. A reeling cackle that ended in a sob. How was he going to do all of this, when he had not even known what day it was?

_Kaiidth. Keep going, keep moving. One foot in front of the other. Keep moving, d'Sakai._

He blinked, unsure if the thought had been his or Taurik's. Their sibling link was much more shallow and tenuous than it had ever been, but Vorik reached along it and felt an answer from his brother. Love, concern, a burning twin to his own.

Comforting, to know that he was not alone. Not this time.

Vorik swallowed fear and rolled to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liv is a New Age boho-hippie chick at heart. Artio is the ancient Celtic bear goddess, who was notably worshiped at Bern, Switzerland.


	6. Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rated hard Mature/soft Explicit for blunt language and brief description of unclothed bodies before an act of consensual sex. Nothing graphic.

"You're leaving?" Paris leaned against the doorway, his blue eyes puzzled and head tilted on one side, looking more puppyish than he had in the mess hall. If that was possible. Took in Vorik's strained expression and the fact that the Vulcan stood pressed back against the far wall of his quarters with an engineering sensor held in his hand as though it were the handle of a knife. "Are you angry with me, Vorik?"

Vorik shook his head. Sweat beading on his temples. Suddenly felt like crying but pressed himself further into the wall. "No, no, nothing you have done. Please go. I need to be alone."

"You look sick. Don't tell me to go if you need help; I know that Vulcans have more than earned their reputation for stubbornness, but don't turn that on me here." Paris's voice took on a gentle, almost paternal cadence. "What do you need?"

The sensor creaked in Vorik's hand, and he consciously released it onto the desk beneath the port window, where it missed the surface and bounced to the floor. Paris followed the sensor's path as though it were a deadly thing.

"I need you to leave."

Paris looked up to him again, the blue eyes searching. Fair eyes always seemed to betray more emotions than dark ones, and here the compassion in the blue eyes made Vorik wish that he could take his friend in his arms and beg for help. The primal part of his brain hissed and threw tantrums against the notion, but the evolved part of him recognized Paris's actions for what they were: brotherly love, born of long acquaintance and shared experience, an older sibling's protective instinct of a younger. He swallowed hard and calmed himself, glanced to the terminal set in the interior wall of the suite cabin.

"I need transport home. To Raal, on Vulcan. It would be difficult for me to—" here Vorik forgot the Standard words and made a conscious switch to ShiKahri Vulcan, which the Universal Translator rendered for him. "It would be difficult for me to focus on the connection of commercial flights and layovers."

"Consider it done." Paris turned to the terminal and called up civilian flight details. "I'll find you the shortest route available. Do you need me to accompany you? I have plenty of leave time, and B'Elanna wouldn't mind."

Vorik doubted that last point very much but bit his tongue against saying so. Focused instead on Paris's earnest offer. "No. Thank you. I am sure you would find me unpleasant company."

"Pack." Paris said, a small smile flitting across his face. "I'll have you going home in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

Vorik packed in a daze, wondering what a Terran ungulate had to do with space travel, and later departed on the  _ Manitoba  _ with only a few words with Chakotay to release him from his duties. When he opened his duffel in the privacy of his passenger quarters he found that he had brought only his heavy brown meditation robe, a summer-light pelal robe, and a copy of  _ Subatomic Particle Behavior in Subspace Vortexes: A Hypothetical Study. _

Thank Rushan-tam’a for replicators; he would need to use them. 

Vorik stared at the room, not recognizing it for a moment. It would take four and a half Standard days to reach Vulcan. That was 121-point-something hours from now. He sighed and pulled off his uniform jacket, slid the golden undershirt from his shoulders, stood naked to the waist. Sweat shone across his pectoral muscles. He looked at himself in the mirror, at the fever in his eyes, the green flush of sclera and glassiness of expression.

Took stock of his slender body, the nervous shudder of his ribs. The dark hair across his well-muscled chest and forearms, the defeated slump of his spine. How he hated it, this weakness of flesh and burn of blood. 

Why had he not paid better attention to his body, the symptoms of sleeplessness, restlessness, his lack of hunger, his failing memory?

Paris’s voice quipped the answer into his ear, as clear as if he were standing next to him: “Denial, Vorik. It’s a hell of a drug.”

He could not go anywhere but his quarters, wanted to run forever and wanted to sleep, was hungry enough for his gut to twist with cramp yet rocked with nausea and never wanted to eat again. 

Meditation was out of the question; it hadn’t worked aboard  _ Voyager  _ and he knew it would not work now.

He was alone.

Truly alone this time, no ship full of familiars who might help him, no one with whom he could be honest. 

And the worst of it, all he wanted to do was couple, fuck, screw, mate, make love, drown himself in willing flesh. 

He lay down on the bunk and worked his uniform trousers off, dropped them onto the floor, lay naked and caressed his own skin. Turned his face into the pillow and grunted in pain, reached inward along his marriage bond.

_ Hlíf? Shelter. _

Liv's wordless reply welled within him as water welled from stone, and he drank of her presence, her love, her concern. A sensation of forward momentum leavened his spirit a little; she was coming for him, just as he was going toward her. They would meet in the middle. He would be warm, sheltered, safe.

He would not die.

*****

Dusk had fallen on the west coast of Na'nam, sultry amber light and dusty violet shadows settling down between the hills and cove beaches. The horizon glowed, a thin band of deep gold, stars shining and T'Kuhl on the wane in an ink-red eastern sky. Vorik walked several steps behind his sister Bal, his eyes closed. Trusting that she would lead him down the even stone path that curved along the tree-lined valley.

The planetary matrilineal culture meant that daughters of the Clan often stayed home and brought their husbands into the order of the Mother Clan. However, pon farr was the one time where Vulcan men had the priority to go home, wherever that was. This biological drive was similar to that of Terran salmon or the Cardassian melag, and in ancient times the ability to survive the journey was woven into the social and cultural tapestry of Vulcan. The Homecoming had been a popular theme in the planet's literature, notable epics passed down through the millennia in the form of longform poems, cantos, and sonnets. 

"This way," Bal called softly, gesturing with her light box down a path that splintered off to the right, under the shelter of spiky-leafed trees reminiscent of scrub oaks. Vorik followed after her, smelling the dry dust and faint salt from the Voroth Sea. Bal wore a flowing white maternity gown, her hair loose and dark against her shoulders. Belly just beginning to show. She and her husband Stonn had their first Time together in the north, several months previous. "Liv contacted me two hours ago. She should be here before midday tomorrow. Come. No, this way, Vorik."

He sobbed a few deep breaths of mixed relief and pain.

"Heya, ai. Easy." Bal reached out and looped her arm through his. Both her pregnancy and close genetic relationship rendered her as asexual to Vorik, in spite of her belly full of child. "Come. We are almost there."

Long ago, when most of Vulcan heaved and bucked in primitive formation, the land that would one day become the western coastal region of Na'nam percolated with water and limestone, creating great blocks of stone. Much later, Vorik's ancestors settled in Raal and had carved their Clan houses of Seclusion into these cliff faces, the rooms ready with a supply of aquifer water and naturally cooled by marine breeze. Clan males tended to cycle through pon farr together, not all at once but bracketed closely enough that the houses were in occupation for two to three years by a rotation of couples. Bal, already pregnant, was an ideal caretaker. In pre-Reform times the lucky coincidence of her pregnancy and role as Mother of the Houses would have rendered her sacred to the Clan. Now, many of the ancient rituals had been shed in favor of practicality, but Bal was still gifted with new robes, bracelets, holo programs, and other precious goods in exchange for her care.

"Here," she said, tugging him into a natural fissure within the rock. An elongated hexagonal door lay at the end of a short passage, carved clean. Vorik hesitated on the wide doorstep, spooked by the flicker of torchlight through the shadows. "It is safe, Vorik. These are among the best rooms."

He glanced backward, noting a second door set into the cliff, a single oculus window carved high above to let in light and air. Heavy oaken door closed, a ceremonial length of yellow linen adorning a central iron loop to indicate occupancy. There was a faint telepathic pull toward this door, and he almost turned toward it when Bal’s hand stopped him.

“Kroykah.”

Vorik froze, the discipline of millennia stilling him. Followed Bal through a small antechamber and into a dim room that reminded him of the rooms for consummation at the Place of Marriage or Challenge. This one was longer, deeper, more womblike. Air water-cool against his fevered skin. A low, wide bed lay at the end of the chamber, an oil lamp burning, a trickle of water singing in a low voice. He recognized a yellow linen bundle as the one that T’Zan had given Liv when they wed. Tied with an orange cord. A clay tag lay threaded through, Liv’s Clan name rendered in Vulcan script: M’deshte k’vor T’Liv.

Bal lit a second lamp, this one an electric alem’ta, carved of rosy-orange halite. 

“Rest here,” she said, making sure that a metal pitcher was filled with water, that the water closet was stocked with towels and first aid kits. She stepped closer to him and searched his eyes. Her face was much like his, the features softer, chin pointed and eyes a tortoiseshell brown, rather than near-black. Her hair fell in subtle waves, rare in Vulcans, who tended to have hair that fell either straight or clung tightly textured. “Many men try to meditate during the Waiting, but I do not know what you shall need.”

“Nemaiyo,” Vorik said, voice hoarse. Thanking her. He could not remember anything but his birth-tongue, and so spoke in the language of Raal. Even the Universal Translator implant in his left ear sounded garbled. 

Bal rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, a minor breach of etiquette that did not matter in the confines of this room. Then she was gone, only the scent of her remaining. Herbal, slightly astringent, an oil perfume that she had favored since she was a child. 

Once the door locked, Vorik shed his robes and lay out naked on the bed, time dripping, rushing, eddying back in on itself, drawing out, tumbling headlong. He used his hands to bring himself release, but eventually this too began to take on a knife’s edge of pain. He turned his face into the mattress and wept.

*****

“Vorik?”

A cool voice, like water. A burr in his name, a curl. Familiar, though he could not put a name to its owner.

“Vorik.” A sliver of light pierced in from the antechamber, then was gone.

Someone was in the room with him.

He could smell her, this woman. Baking bread, salt, the faint tang of fear in iron blood. Vorik huddled against the wall by the bed to try and draw coolness from the stone, sweat beading down his spine and chest, clinging to his temples. Rose with his shoulder skidding over the wall and swayed to his feet. Through the dim light he could see her, this woman who stood in a rust-orange skirt. She was moving in a way that indicated she was taking her clothes off, and her pale skin seemed to glow in the light from the salt lamp. Her face in shadow.

He gazed at her, hypnotized by her small breasts, the slender waist with a dip of navel, perfectly circular. The curve of her hips, the strong thighs. Narrow ankles, narrow wrists, strong shoulders under a fall of strawberry blonde hair. The auburn hair between her legs. She stepped into the light.

Regarded him too, muscles tense in his slender body, skin flushed green, the aggressive jut of his erection. Met his eyes.

Vorik strode forward and she flinched back, gasped when he caught her face between his hands. Pressed his thumbs gently beneath the outer corners of her eyes and cupped his fingers around the back of her head, a movement born out of pure instinct. Her mind resonated against his, then  _ with _ his own, his touch awakening synapse and impulse, the basic drive of sex. Her desire burned along with his, though cooler and more in control. 

_ Liv. I  _ know  _ you, _ he Thought. Less words than feeling.

_ Yes. I want you. Vorik’ash. _

She trembled, so he let go and pulled her up into his arms. Her thighs parted around him, feet locking behind his buttocks. He entered her even as they stood, growled against her throat. His grip on her round croup slipped, for his hands were slick with sweat. Bore her to the bed as gently as he could, given his hunger. Though she also burned she was as cool as water to him.

He drank and drank and drank.

*****

“Shhh,” Liv whispered. Caressed his jaw with the end of the crop. They had not needed the cuffs in the first drive of mating but woke a day later, the fire banked and smouldering. She rose and playfully locked his hands behind his back with the iron restraints. Left his legs free as he grinned into the pillow. Vorik laughed and kissed her palm when she straddled the small of his back. This lovemaking was pure joy, their laughter a surprising aphrodisiac. “Say please,” she murmured with her hot breath into one exquisitely pointed ear.

“Please,” Vorik murmured. Voice rusty and warm and rumbling with amusement, desire. “Please let me fuck.”

“Dirty. A good first effort, Vorik’ash.”

He growled again and rolled onto his side, trapping her legs with his thigh.

She yielded with a growl of her own.

*****

“There is no more fear?”

“No.”

“There needn’t be ever again, Vorik.”

“I know.”

“You were never damaged. You were only lost. You did not know.”

“I just wish I knew that I was forgiven.”

“Penance can last only so long. Sometimes we don’t get closure. Let it go.”

“You are with me.”

“Never and always touching and touched, as your people say.”

“They are your people now, too.”

“Yes.” Liv’s voice carried a note of uncertainty, as if she was trying to convince herself of his statement.

Vorik sighed into his forearms. Twitched on his belly, appalled that even after four days he wanted to mate again. He simultaneously wanted to eat and bathe, run on the beach, sleep deeply, meld, make love.

Liv sat on her haunches, a loose turquoise robe flowing from her shoulders as she massaged his back with vanilla-scented oil that she had brought with her. A wide bowl of bread and fruit sat balanced over the sheets; Bal had left it in the antechamber, and Vorik tried to master the shame he felt when he devoured three quarters of what his sister had brought. 

“Go ahead,” Liv said, noticing him eyeing a slice of slotu melon. 

“I do not wish for you to think me a glutton—”

_ “Vorik.” _ Her voice sharpened with an edge of warning, so he sat obediently and ate while Liv retrieved his heavy robe for the cold night ahead. “No false modesty, not after we’ve seen every square centimeter of each other over the past four days. You haven’t eaten well in weeks, I take it?”

In truth, the last thing he remembered eating was half of the hasperat roll back on  _ Voyager, _ ten days gone, now. He reached for another roll of bread baked with a river of sweet honey cream flowing through the middle.

When he was done with the bread he bore Liv down to the bed again, rolled atop her, mated, and helped her rise from the sheets. She bathed in the shallow stone basin carved into the water closet floor and pulled the turquoise robe about her. She gave him a cattish grin and evaded his snatching hands as she strolled to the door for a walk. By tradition, Vorik was not permitted to leave the rooms of Seclusion yet, not until the fifth day. Liv was free to wander. 

The lock tumbled in the door, and once he was certain that he was alone he bathed, dressed, tried his first meditation in over a week and found himself able to enter the vhl’tri stages with negligible effort. His control was beginning to reassert itself, higher cognitive function keeping instinct in check. The meditation folded about him as if he sank into warm water.

When he withdrew he was aware of Liv’s voice muffled behind the door, a pause, then another woman’s voice that hovered on the edge of recognition. L’Del. Taurik’s wife. They were speaking in the antechamber, voices soft, though Vorik caught every few words.

He is well. First? Unharmed. You? Bal said. Taurik said. Of course. Ten days. With T’Sara. Up north. On Cardassia. Maybe. Perhaps. And Taurik? Vorik must.

Bal’s voice joined them, her Raalian drawl full and lilting: my brothers will, our aunt is, by the well, blanket, tea, this evening.

Vorik sank into the first true sleep he had experienced in weeks, lulled by the sound of three voices belonging to people who loved him.

*****

Vorik blinked, watching the sliver of sunlight trace along the floor and vanish several minutes later. Sundown, then. He must have slept for an entire turn of the sun. The same trio of feminine voices attracted his attention, and he sat, stretching out his long limbs. Vertigo gone, hunger satisfied, head clear. He drank water, for his mouth was yet dry, dressed in long brown robes and padded barefoot to the door. Found it unlocked and sitting half ajar to let the sea air inside.

Mid-autumn greeted him and lay sweet about his skin, and he sighed in gratitude. He followed a short path to the center well and found the natural stone hollow lit with several oil braziers and smelling of black tea and v'pret incense.

Liv, Bal, and L'Del were sitting together in their robes on a rust red blanket. A circle of trees sheltered them, their low voices braiding over and through each other's in ShiKahri. Bal was saying something about her baby, for she looked down to her belly and lay one square hand over the curve. Invited her sisters to touch where the baby kicked. A boy, she said, one of the few phrases loud enough for Vorik to hear. He looked beyond them to where another woman was walking up the left-hand path, an older aunt named T'Pola. She brushed her hand back to smooth the grey wings of her hair and sat down next to Liv, asked her a question in halting Standard. His wife's deep amusement predicated through their Bond before he heard her laugh, and even Bal and L'Del allowed themselves a soft giggle. Vulcan women were always more open about sex among one another, and Vorik turned back to allow them their circle.

He stopped short when he found Taurik standing behind him, black robes immaculate. Hands folded into his sleeves and an expression of faint amusement on his face. He looked pointedly up at Vorik's hair, which had not been combed.

"D'v'Sakai," they said. Frowned at the near-perfect unison.

"It is unsettling when we do that," Vorik said, seeing Taurik literally bite his tongue to prevent further stereo speech. "Perhaps a different greeting is in order."

"How about 'Yo.'" Taurik said.

"Or 'How goes it, Geer?'" Vorik smirked and smoothed his hair with his hands. Starfleet slang for "engineer" reminded him too much of the Raalian word for skull, a slang insult that literally meant bonehead.

“Or the short and elegant ‘Hi.’” Taurik allowed a tiny smile and nudged Vorik’s shoulder with his own. “Walk with me?” 

They followed a narrow path that wound up above the canyon and allowed a view of the sea a few kilometers to the west. The tide was low, and mud flats glittered with the wings of seabirds browsing for bivalves and mollusks. The Nine Stars wheeled in the southern sky, and a sliver of T’Kuht waxed new against the dusky western horizon.

The path looped the narrow canyon, where more inset doors let into other Seclusion rooms, a few looped with yellow linen but most standing empty. Bal’s pavilion and Mother House stood at the northern end, the low deck outside lit with solar lanterns glowing to life as darkness fell further. Stonn sat on a woven blanket, the blue glow of a padd highlighting his sharp cheekbones. He glanced up and hailed his brothers-in-law with a silent raise of his hand. They returned the gesture but did not speak. Glared, in fact, instinct struggling with logic. 

Vorik clenched his hands inside the sleeves of his robes and tried to reign in his shortened temper as they moved on. For some reason his instinctual self did not view Taurik as a threat to his marriage, but Stonn, several meters below, read as a rival. Curious. Perhaps blood ties—and genetically, he and Taurik were the same person—had something to do with his tolerance of his brother. The taboos surrounding pon farr went so deep that he did not know. Perhaps Liv would, with the marvelous honesty that Vulcan women shared when among one another. He would have to ask her. 

Later. After they made love.

Again.

*****

“Are you going back to  _ Voyager, _ then?” Taurik asked, several days later when they returned to Raal and strolled along the main streets after a late dinner. 

“No. I do not wish to go to the Beta Quadrant, not if—” Vorik made a vague gesture at Liv, who was standing with Bal inside a pottery stall examining a set of shino tea bowls.

“If she is pregnant.” Taurik murmured, watching Talys playing hopscotch with two Andorian children. “I do not blame you. Where then, will you go?”

“Captain Yatika offered Liv a position aboard the  _ Osage. _ She wishes to accept.”

Vorik knew that his faint unease pinged clearly along their sibling bond, and Taurik gave a telepathic nudge that indicated curiosity.

“Liv is helping the  _ Osage _ survey survivors’ stories at Cardassia Prime. Aside from xenolinguistics she dual majored in psychology. And the Cardassians… They need assistance.” Vorik folded his hands behind his back and tried to keep his expression neutral. “They lack the Bajoran versatility of mind required to easily bounce back from near destruction. Liv has found a lot of despair and wishes to help.”

“Noble.” Taurik nodded to L’Del, who had paused to retrieve their daughter. Stonn coaxed her away from the hopscotch game with a bowl of chocolate gelato. “Would you stay to help her in the endeavor?”

“You would not mind? They are your former enemies.”

Taurik turned to look at him, his dark eyes unreadable for a moment and telepathic shields clamped shut. His brother made a conscious effort to open them again. Shameful joy flickered, then was gone. Replaced by grief, compassion, the color light blue. “I would not mind. If our world were similarly decimated I would hope that others would give us grace and help us from the ashes.”

Vorik nodded, grateful that Taurik had found peace after the War. He knew of others who were not so fortunate. 

A soft step at his side, and he looked down to see Liv next to him. Preternaturally silent in bare feet beneath her green Vulcan-cut dress. She quirked her one-sided smile and held her paired fingers out. Vorik smiled and caressed them with his own.


End file.
